Page 36 of Queen
For a moment, I can’t move. The paper looks ordinary—creased, damp at the edges—but under my skin, something hums. Instinct. The kind that whispers a door you open might lock behind you forever.
I take it slowly, his rough fingertips brushing mine for the barest second before I pull back. The paper is warm. Too warm, as if it had been held tight in someone’s hand before being left for me.
When I unfold it, the handwriting hits me first. Jagged. Hurried. Ink feathered by moisture at the edges.
He isn’t the only one watching. You chose the wrong side.
The words punch through me. My pulse stumbles, then races, a drumbeat pounding in my ears. My fingers curl tight until the note creases into hard lines.Wrong side. Watching.My gaze sweeps the cemetery—the tree line, the path, the open gates. Nothing. Just shadows and the low hiss of wind over stone. But it doesn’t matter. Whoever wrote this could be here. Could be anywhere.
My knees nearly buckle. The ground feels unsteady, like the earth itself has tilted under me.
Emiliano steps closer. His movement is unhurried, but impossible to ignore. “What is it?” His voice is low. Too calm. The kind of calm that hides violence waiting beneath.
I shake my head, taking a step back even as he reaches for the paper. His hand is steady, palm open, a silent command.
“No.” The word escapes in a whisper, barely sound at all, but it slices the air between us like steel. My grip tightens. “Not yet.”
For a long moment, we just stand there. His eyes are dark, unreadable, searching mine. I know he’s calculating—whether to let me hold this secret or to take it by force.
The velvet drags heavier over my skin, but this time it isn’t the dress. It’s the certainty pressing into me with the weight of the grave behind us—ghosts don’t stay buried.
And this one just left me a message.
8
emiliano
Arrival at the Grave
The door of the armored car swings open, and the cold hits me first—thin, damp, the kind that slides under your coat and settles in your bones. I step out slow, deliberate, the way I always do when I want the world to know I own the ground I’m walking on.
The cemetery spreads out in front of me, remote and fog-draped. The gates are iron, black and heavy, and beyond them the stones rise from the earth like teeth. The early morning chill clings to the air, muting every sound except the crunch of gravel under boots. Even the birds know better than to sing here.
She steps out a moment later. Zina.
Black velvet wraps her like shadow, the dress I picked clinging in all the places I wanted it to. The red lining flashes atthe hem with every movement, a whisper of warning. Her throat is bare except for the diamond collar, a reminder I never let her shed. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say a fucking word. But the silence between us? It’s alive. Electric. I could cut it open and watch it bleed.
Her hand is tight around something—her clutch, but I know better. The mystery note from last night. She’s still hiding it from me, holding it like it’s more valuable than her next breath. That detail stings more than I’ll ever admit out loud. She’s mine, but that piece of paper is a wall she’s decided I can’t climb—yet.
I let my eyes linger on her a moment longer before I turn to the men. “Stay back.”
They don’t argue. They know the tone in my voice means I’m not asking.
I fall into step beside her as we move toward the gates. The fog swirls low around our feet, thick enough that it seems to catch on the hem of her dress, dragging after her like she’s pulling the dead along with us. The only sound between us is the crunch of gravel. It’s enough. Words would cheapen this.
I match her pace without looking like I’m matching her pace. Power isn’t just about leading—it’s about letting someone think they’re walking beside you when they’re still following.
The path winds, gravel giving way to worn grass. The fog softens the edges of everything—the headstones, the trees, the sky—but nothing can soften her. She cuts through it all, a straight line of defiance wrapped in velvet.
I glance down at her again. Her chin is high, shoulders squared, every inch of her screaming that she doesn’t need me. But her fingers around that note? They’re white-knuckled, betraying her.
I could ask her about it now. Could demand it. But part of me wants to wait, to see how far she’s willing to push me beforeI take it from her. Some battles are better when they’ve been allowed to fester.
The gates groan as they close behind us. The sound echoes through the fog, final and heavy, like the start of something neither of us can take back.
I keep walking. She keeps pace. And between the silence, the fog, and the weight of the dead watching, it feels less like we’re here to visit a grave— and more like we’re walking into one.
A Funeral Without a Priest
